


Aftermath

by xxSparksxx



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Feelings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 07:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15431559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: After the moment of crisis brought on by Ross’s duel, Demelza and Dwight share their fears.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Mid-episode for 4.07, ergo spoilery. Beta'd by mmmuse.

“You knew this was happening.”

Ross lies on the bed. Unconscious or asleep, Demelza does not know which, nor is she precisely sure that she cares. She feels sick to her stomach. She feels as if a single touch would send her reeling as if from a blow. She feels that the world is coming to an end.

When Ross had come in, covered in blood, she had been too shocked to ask questions. She had got him onto the bed, somehow. Taken off his coat and waistcoat, tried to help him drink something. He’d told her that Dwight would be coming soon, so she hadn’t tried to bind the wound, merely made sure the tourniquet was tight enough above his elbow and pressed a wad of sheets against the wound itself. She isn’t sure, now, whether she would have been able to do anything more than that. Scrapes and bruises she can tend to, but a gunshot wound, and on her _husband_ – oh God, _Ross_ – no, that is beyond her capabilities. Beyond her strength to bear.

He’d been in such pain. Shock and pain, his face turning grey, the blood seeping from the wound and onto the bed sheets. Nausea churning in her stomach, terror making her hands shake as she tried to help him. There hadn’t been time for questions, even had she known what to ask. Footpads? A brawl? Ross never habitually carries weapons, and thieves are more likely to use a cudgel or a knife. Not a pistol. But there had been no mistaking the wound. She’s seen few enough gunshot wounds, but more than enough knife wounds to know the difference. This was not done by a knife.

She had only discovered what had happened once Dwight had arrived, after he had tended to Ross’s arm and forced him to drink a quantity of brandy. After he had succumbed to sleep or pained unconsciousness, Dwight had told her what had happened. Monk Adderley. A duel, in Hyde Park, each man wounded. Some slight to their honour, and neither man sensible enough to back down. Oh God, she thinks, was this my fault?

“You knew this was happening,” she says to Dwight. “All yesterday, you – you knew.”

“Yes,” Dwight nods. “Yes. He swore me to secrecy, or else of course I would have told you.”

“And Caroline?”

“No, she had no idea. She must know now, of course.”

“Of course,” Demelza echoes bitterly.

She wants to ask why Dwight didn’t stop Ross. If anyone could have stopped him, it would be Dwight, and she wants to shout at him, to reproach him and expunge her anger by directing it towards him. But though she’s angry and terrified and disgusted, she can’t lay that accusation on him. Dwight knows Ross almost as well as Demelza does – better, in some ways. He knows how Ross can be, when his pride, his _anger_ , is roused. She’s sure Dwight had tried to stop Ross, had probably tried right up until the weapons were discharged. But nobody can stop Ross when he’s like that. Nothing and nobody could have stopped him. God knows Demelza has tried before, and failed.

So she won’t ask the frustrated, anguished question that leaps into her mouth. It isn’t fair to Dwight. She glances behind her, at Ross on the bed, and feels sick again. Fair! There is no fairness here. Did Ross even spare a thought for her? For what she would feel about this, no matter the outcome? 

“Here, sit down, before you faint. And drink this.” Dwight hands her a glass, and ushers her into a chair. She isn’t the fainting sort, but this morning has pressed her hard, and she feels closer to it than she has ever felt in her life. She almost feels it would be a blessing: to faint away and lie in blissful unconscious for a few moments, until Dwight found his smelling salts to wake her. But a few moments wouldn’t be enough. She wants to scrub this morning – this _week_ – from her mind. Monk Adderley. Of _course_ it was Monk Adderley. Dwight won’t tell her what the quarrel was over, but she’s seen Ross’s jealousy, heard his bitter words and his cold admonishments to her. She knows, no matter what anyone can say, that Ross’s mind will have been fixed. Any other opponent and he might have withdrawn, but not against Adderley. Because Adderley had made his intentions plain, and Demelza had not done enough to stop him, though she’d tried only to be polite and no more.

Monk Adderley. A forward, slippery creature. She’s had to be polite – she is so out of her depth here, in London society – but what could she have done, to discourage him? What more could she have done? 

No, no matter what Ross or Dwight might let slip, no matter what they say about the duel, she knows it was about her. She will never forgive herself for whatever it is she’s done, this week, that has given Ross cause to suspect, cause to _doubt_ her. And doubt her he does, still. Doubt and jealousy has caused this duel, this stupid act of violence that may yet cause ruin to all Ross holds dear. Adderley is alive still; Ross is alive still. But he may yet lose the use of his hand, and Adderley, Dwight has told her, is not free from danger.

“I wish you had told me,” she murmurs at last, unable to keep all her anger, all her bitterness, out of her voice. The brandy, when she sips it, burns down her throat. “How could you not _tell_ me, Dwight? And,” she adds, fresh horror dawning on her, “yesterday, all yesterday – is that where Ross was? He had so many plans for what we should do, and then he was gone most of the afternoon. Was he –,”

“Practicing,” Dwight nods. “Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment. On the bed, Ross makes a small sound, almost a moan. Demelza looks at him, at the blood slowly seeping through the clean bandage Dwight had tied around the wound. Nausea rises again. She feels dizzy. The glass falls from her hand, and then there seems to be some gap of time, for suddenly she finds herself on the floor, as if she’s slid out of her chair. Dwight is beside her, capping a vial of something that smells like rotting eggs. 

“Careful,” he says, as she puts out a hand to steady herself. “Careful. You fainted. I’m not surprised, you’ve had a terrible shock.” She’s shaking, she discovers. When she tries to stand up, she can’t manage it without Dwight’s support, and she doesn’t object when he makes her sit down again, and pours her another glass of brandy. She drinks it mechanically, and listens to another sound from the bed. She can’t bear to look.

“I will never forgive him for this,” she whispers. 

“You mustn’t say that,” says Dwight, reaching to clasp her hand. “It’s bad, I know, and I wish to God I’d been able to stop him, but…but you’ve come through worse, Demelza.” He’s pale, she realises suddenly. He’s afraid, too. It makes her feel less alone, to see his fear, but she can’t explain the complicated feelings in her heart, the mix of shame and doubt and despair that have driven her to say such a thing. Perhaps he’s right, perhaps she shouldn’t say it, but _oh_ , she feels so betrayed by Ross. How could he do it? How could he risk so much? How can he trust her so little, _still_?

Tears well in her eyes. Demelza blinks them away, feels one trickling down from the corner of her eye over her cheek, down to her chin. It drips onto the skirt of her dress. But no more follow it; she has strength enough to keep away a torrent of tears, at least.

Ross moves again, and sighs. “Demelza,” he murmurs. She would take it for a dream except that after a moment he lifts his head, aroused from slumber or unconsciousness. “Demelza,” he says again, throat rasping. 

“I’m here, Ross,” she says at once, setting aside the brandy as she rises. She crosses the room to the bed and sits gently on the edge of it, careful not to jostle his arm. “Shall I fetch you a drink? Tea? Or brandy?”

“No, no. Nothing.” He reaches, with his good arm, for her hand. Demelza swallows hard and manages a meagre smile for him when he brings it to his mouth and kisses her fingers. “Just sit with me,” he entreats. “Please.” He is deathly white still, a horrible contrast to the red blood that’s blooming on the bandage. She isn’t sure she’s ever seen him so ashen, so wounded. Angry, vengeful, despairing, loving, laughing – but never so pallid from injury and blood loss. She wishes with all her heart that she will never have to see him like this again.

“Of course,” she agrees. “Just rest, Ross.” She smoothes his hair back from his face and tries to make her smile a little more genuine, a little less tremulous. “I’ll stay right here,” she assures him. Ross nods slowly, and closes his eyes again. Her heart feels torn asunder in her chest. She strokes his brow and holds his hand and wishes herself a hundred miles away from London.


End file.
